


Getting comfortable

by beastdrips



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Fluff, Hawke is definitely purple, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Wicked Grace, just let Fenris be happy damn it, reading lessons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 23:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16691362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastdrips/pseuds/beastdrips
Summary: When Fenris walked away from a place at Hawke’s side, he didn’t know if he could ever be what he wanted. Three years later, he’s granted a second chance at finding out, and Fenris tries to settle in what a romantic relationship is.





	Getting comfortable

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been into Dragon Age for years and years and years and yet I’ve never written anything save for a handful short stories shared with my friends, so I finished this instead of doing my blood analysis homework

_“If there is a future to be had, I will gladly walk it by your side.”_

 

\--

 

It had been a little over a week since Fenris and Hawke had reconciled what happened between them after Hadriana. He honestly had no idea what to expect, what would become of their relationship after such a rocky start (swift end) and how it would change things. But, at first, nothing seemed to change. Hawke would still waltz in with a new book for them to go over, would invite him to hunt down bandits on the Wounded Coast, suggest they walk together to the Hanged Man for a few rounds of Wicked Grace with the others and then back again, thoroughly plastered.

Then he began to notice the little things. How Hawke would casually sling an arm over the back of Fenris’ chair at the Hanged Man, not quite touching but still inserting himself into his personal space, like he belonged there - _which he did_ , an aching, longing part of Fenris supplied. He’d catch his eye while they were out on a job, just to smile at him. Every time they said goodbye in front of the Hawke Estate he always paused, face flushed and unsteady on his feet, working his jaw like he wanted to say something before finally settling on “Sleep well, Fenris” and retreating into his home. Fenris was left to ponder that uncharacteristic hesitance alone in his mansion, wondering what words died on Hawke’s tongue.

One evening he kissed him goodbye.

 

It was not the feverish, heated kisses that had passed between them previously, but slow, tentative. Fenris had said “Good night, Hawke”, and Hawke had looked at him, the words hanging in the air. Then he’d stepped forward, tilted his head down and pecked the corner of his mouth. It was so sweet, innocent almost, it made Fenris’ breath catch in his throat. Hawke pulled back with a reserved smile and said “Good night.” Fenris stood there for a good while longer even after Hawke left, fixed to the spot like he’d cast a spell on him.

They’d kissed before, why this somehow felt different was beyond him.

Sleep didn’t come to him easily when he settled for the night, a myriad of feelings and thoughts draping over him like the covers he found himself under.

He wasn’t sure how to navigate around romance, and though Hawke seemed to have plenty of ideas he was slow to indulge in them. Fenris wondered if Hawke was afraid he’d run again, and that’s why he was so hesitant. Before, he’d flirted with him at the drop of a hat, with a cocksure grin and a boldness as if the thought of rejection didn’t even cross his mind. It had been.. Unexpected, but not unwelcome. The desire was playful, an easy declaration of interest as if all of Fenris’ thorns didn’t matter.

Though he’d had his reservations about the mage, one would be a fool to deny Hawke was attractive. Aggravating, at times, but still wielding charm with a natural ease. Falling for him had been a gradual process, and he wasn’t sure exactly when his feelings toward him had shifted from platonic to something else, but one day he simply found his fool heart running away from him and all his better judgement.

Fenris still wasn’t sure how to be what Hawke wanted, how to be what he deserved, but he would try. He owed it to him to try. Fenris frowned at the ceiling. No, he corrected himself, he owed it to _himself_ to try.

 

\--

 

Next time they met, he was prepared. Hawke showed up at his mansion on Tuesday ready to assume the role of tutor with his arms full of scrolls, a book tucked under his arm and a grin on his face. It was all a rather precarious situation, and when Fenris didn’t move out of the doorway he chuckled and said, “If I don’t put all this down soon I’m going to drop the lot.”

Fenris smiled, a crooked thing tugging at the corner of his mouth, and stepped forward. He rose to his tiptoes and pressed a kiss to Hawke’s lips. A small thing, but no less important for it. He didn’t want to simply be a recipient in Hawke’s affection, he wanted to give as well as he got. When he pulled away far too soon Hawke’s eyes were closed and the goofy grin was gone, given way to something far more tender. When he opened his eyes they were brimming with warmth and he smiled, wide and genuine.

“Nice to see you, too,” he said softly. “I’m serious, though, I’m going to drop this.”

Fenris laughed and stepped aside, allowing Hawke entrance.

“Let’s get to it, then,” he said, gesturing inside.

They moved through the foyer, up the stairs and towards the room they usually consorted in, Hawke’s posture growing more and more awkward as they went. The room held a large table, some cushioned chairs, as well as a fireplace which was rather welcome in the chill of the desolate mansion. Hawke walked over to the table and dumped everything he carried onto it, though not without a few scrolls and the book under his arm sailing to the floor.

“Damn it,” he muttered as he knelt down to pick it all up. Fenris walked over and grabbed a scroll on the table, unfurling it. It was blank, and he guessed the others were as well.

“Is there a reason for this ludicrous amount of scrolls?” he asked, unfurling another to confirm his suspicion. Blank, as he thought.

Hawke narrowly dodged hitting his head on the edge of the table when he straightened back up, setting the book and scrolls on the table.

“Well, I’m counting on a lot of writing,” he said. “Repetition is the key to mastering, after all.”

“I see,” Fenris said. Hawke was already rummaging through a backpack, muttering about _Maker-damned invisible inkwells_. Fenris hadn’t even noticed he was carrying a backpack along with all the other stuff. “Then what is the book for?”

Hawke found the inkwell he was looking for, along with a quill that had seen better days.

“You’ll read it and then copy phrases that you like. Or dislike, that works too. Practice writing full sentences.” He slid the book over to Fenris, who took a moment to arch an eyebrow at Hawke’s plan before picking it up and looking at the cover. It was plain aside for some intricate floral designs embossed along one side.

“An.. assorted.. Collect.. collection of.. Orlesian poetry,” Fenris read, struggling a little to decipher the extravagant, loopy print. He looked at the mage with a smirk. “Poems, Hawke?”

“Why is everyone always so surprised?”

“You were not overly fond of them at Chateau Haine, I recall.”

“ _Orlesians_ , Fenris. Not their poems, which can be quite good. Occasionally. Very captivating.”

“You’ve read them all, then?” Fenris opened the book, pleased to see the print inside was not quite as excessive as the title. Calligraphy, while it certainly looked pretty, was still proving challenging. The poems were divided in two columns; one column read in Orlesian, and one in the common trade tongue. Hawke took a seat in one of the cushioned chairs, weighing it onto its two back legs.

“Yes, though they can get a little pretentious. There were a few that I thought you’d enjoy.”

“I’ll trust your judgement on that.”

He took the chair next to Hawke, merely an arm’s length away, and read a few poems. Silently to himself, first, to familiarize himself with the words, and then aloud to Hawke. At one point Hawke asked him to read it in Orlesian, and Fenris could not deny that bright smile and humored him. After a while Hawke reminded him he was supposed to be writing. Fenris frowned at him, then riffled through the poems in search of something _captivating_ to copy down.

There were a few phrases that more or less spoke to him, or found otherwise pretty. Some he picked purely because he enjoyed writing particular letters. He filled numerous scrolls with repeated phrases, trying to ignore the poor state of his handwriting. _You’re still learning,_ he thought, echoing what Hawke had told him numerous times _. Patience._

“My hand is starting to cramp,” he said after a while, setting the quill down to flex his fingers. Hawke smiled sympathetically.

“Just one more,” he said. “There’s still time before dusk.”

Fenris tore his eyes away from the scrolls and raised an inquisitive brow at Hawke. Before dusk?

“I take it you have plans.”

“The Hanged Man. You’re more than welcome to come along, as always.” After a beat, he added softly, “I’d like you to.”

“Who else will be there?”

“Varric, Merrill and Isabela. Everyone else is, apparently, ‘busy’, whatever that word means.”

“Then I would be glad to accompany you,” Fenris said, but in all honesty he would have come along regardless of who showed, even the abomination. Hawke smiled wider, and Fenris returned it with one of his own. Then Hawke inclined his head toward the open book of poems. “Go on.”

His eyes lingered on Hawke’s face for a moment longer before he resigned himself to their lesson, going back to leafing through the pages until something caught his eye.

He snorted.

“ _Their fertile loins are full of magic sparks_ ,” he read. Hawke made a series of intriguing faces before he burst out into laughter, throwing his head back and making his balancing chair tip dangerously. He was never shy about showing his amusement, always laughed openly and freely. It was infectious, and Fenris couldn’t help a smile.

“Did Isabela write that in?” he managed after a moment. Fenris shook his head.

“It is very much the original print,” he said, still trying to reign in the smile on his face.

“Maker’s breath, that’s awful. I’m trying not to picture balls that shoot lightning - what could that possibly _mean_?” Hawke snickered again. “‘Loins full of magic sparks.’”

“Apparently it’s about cats,” Fenris said, causing Hawke to guffaw again.  
“That’s even _worse_!”

They chuckled for a little bit more, then Fenris spoke again.

“Does Isabela deface your litterature often?”

“Oh, all the time. She particularly likes to decorate my journal with body parts of varying shape and size. She’s quite the artist, our Bela.”

Fenris could easily imagine what sort of body parts were in question. Loins aside, Fenris went over the poem again and settled on something less awkwardly suggestive. He spread out a new blank scroll before him, armed himself with the battered quill and dipped the metal tip into the ink. His hand hovered over the parchment for a moment before making a short horizontal line, then a vertical one sprouting down from its middle. He drew a mound sitting beside a tall pillar, the slithering body of a serpent, letter after letter which became words which became a sentence.

_They seek the silence and the horror of darkness._

“Profound,” Hawke commented. “Your penmanship is getting better.”

“It’s atrocious,” Fenris replied tersely, staring down at all the scrolls covered by his childlike scrawl. The lines were ripe with uncertainty, the letters uneven and stiff.

“But better,” Hawke said and leaned forward so suddenly his chair came down with a mighty slam. He scooted closer, close enough that their arms were touching, and leaned forward still.

“Here,” he said and took hold of the quill, his large hand covering Fenris’. “Don’t think so hard, try and just it let flow.” Fenris bit back a scathing comment about how writing had everything to do with thinking, how not everyone used words as thoughtlessly as Hawke.

Hawke guided his hand, writing with much more speed and ease. Fenris made an attempt on not thinking, trying to understand this abstract idea of thoughtlessness and focused on how Hawke’s hand was moving instead. The swift curl of an s, the descending sweep of an f; delicate movements of wrist and fingers.

Hawke let go of his hand and sat back. Fenris looked down at the script. It was far neater than what he’d written.

“Writing is more muscle memory than thinking of what the letters look like,” he said.

“If I don’t concern myself with how they look like they’re not going to look like letters at all,” Fenris countered, growing frustrated. “Then the whole point of writing something would be lost.”

“Try writing something without copying it,” Hawke suggested, not even bothering to argue, his tone still so infuriatingly light. It was easy for him, Fenris thought. He already learned this long ago. “Feel it out.”

“Venhedis,” Fenris muttered. He thought for a moment, then took the quill to the parchment again.

_Hawke is an ass._

Hawke read it, laughed, then snatched the quill out of Fenris’ hand and added to it.

_Hawke is an ass.tonishing man._

Fenris snatched it back and fixed the statement.

_Hawke is an ass.tonishing man.urial fool._

“Manurial!?”

Fenris smirked and kept the quill out of Hawke’s reach when he tried to get it back. Hawke let out a growl and stood up, effectively increasing his reach and allowing him to steal it back. Fenris laughed as Hawke added to the sentence, and they wrestled the poor quill back and forth until they ended up with:

 _Hawke is an ass.tonishing man.urial fool. with good hair.less head.boards in his beautiful mansion. full of_ _shOOTING STARS_ _!! _

When they finally recovered from laughing until their sides hurt Hawke had thrown an arm around Fenris’ shoulders and Fenris had pressed his forehead against Hawke’s neck. They descended into chuckles, slowly catching their breath.

“You’re ridiculous,” Fenris said, all his frustration gone, sippered out of him. Hawke hummed and pressed a kiss to his temple, the gesture threatening to have Fenris’ chest burst with fondness. It felt good to laugh with him, it felt good to be close to him, to abandon dignity for a short while just to fool around like adolescents. He never thought he could have this.

“You started it,” Hawke pointed out.

“Not without good reason.”

Hawke chuckled, but could find no fault with that. He wrapped his fingers around Fenris’ writing hand, massaging his palm with his thumb. It was pleasant, despite the faint jolt whenever Hawke touched a line of lyrium, easing the tension built up from holding the quill and writing the same things over and over. The pad of Hawke’s thumb was rough and calloused from years of farmwork and wielding staves, but it wasn’t like Fenris’ hands were in any better state.

“We should stop for the day,” Hawke said. “Give your poor hand a rest.”

“Mmm,” Fenris hummed contently, and though he was not eager to leave his spot, leaned against Hawke, he said, “Suppose we should head for the Hanged Man, then.”

“Suppose we should.”

 

\--

 

The Hanged Man was as filthy and desperate as always, littered with the angry and downtrodden, weary eyes staring into ale that could be compared with rat piss or staring suspiciously at everyone else. The floor was dirty and stained with long old blood, and Fenris had to wonder how many of them their merry band of misfits were responsible for.

His eyes were drawn to a particular stain at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the rooms, and Fenris’ lip curled in grim satisfaction at what remained of Danarius; dead and forgotten in a filthy hovel.

Varric waved at them from their usual table by the fireplace, a deck of cards placed before him, promising a night full of Wicked Grace and reckless gambling. Hawke marched over and took a seat at the table, the scrape of the chair dragging against the floor loud and obnoxious. Fenris followed with a little less grandeur and sat next to him.

“Varric! I saw you at the Merchant’s Guild earlier,” Hawke said.

“And you didn’t say hi? I’m hurt, Hawke,” Varric said with a pitiful expression and splayed a hand over his chest. It was no surprise they were such good friends, kindred spirits of sarcastic theatrics as they were. Hawke merely smiled.

“You seemed to be in a very heated discussion, I didn’t want to interrupt. Besides-” He leaned back and slung an arm over the back of Fenris’ chair, as he so often did lately. “I was going somewhere.”

“And the brooding elf takes precedence, of course,” Varric said with sage nod. “I should have known.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Fenris saw Hawke look at him with that open grin, could clearly picture the warm glint in his rich brown eyes, and leaned his head back against his arm with a faint smile. There was a sense of satisfaction, that Hawke would stop for nothing on his way to him, that he would be so important that any pause or detour was rejected outright-

Or perhaps he just _had_ to hurry, for all those scrolls he carried.

Hawke stood abruptly, clasping his hands together. “Well, shall we get drinks started, then? The sooner we get drunk the sooner we don’t have to taste that swill,” he said, then headed for the bar, and Corff.

Fenris watched him go, because of course he did. Watched his long, confident stride. How he immediately caught the barkeep’s attention, and the way he leaned on the bar with one elbow and glanced back at them. Their eyes met across the room, and then Hawke looked away. Fenris glimpsed the grin before he turned away, and couldn’t stop his fool heart from crying out in his chest.

“It’s good to see you two on good terms again,” Varric said. Fenris looked at him, surprised, though not showing it. Varric was stacking a pile of sovereigns in front of him, casual as can be.

“We were never on bad terms,” Fenris replied.

Sure, there had been a few weeks of limited, stiff, contact after the night Fenris left Hawke’s bed, followed by awkwardly trying to maneuver around each other again as Hawke seemed determined to not let Fenris stray too far, but they never were on bad terms. Eventually it had felt like it never happened.

“You know what I mean, Elf.” He switched to stacking silvers next to the small tower of sovereigns. “All I’m saying is I’m glad all that miserable pining is over with, it was painful to witness.”

“Miserable pining?” Fenris raised a brow. Varric’s face was carefully neutral but Fenris knew him well enough to know he was definitely smug. There was simply a way that his eyes were set, the fleeting quality of his voice.

“Oh, you know. _Pining._ Forlorn glances, sighs of longing, drunken weeping; the works.”

It was at that moment that Hawke returned, armed with three tankards of terrible ale. “There was no drunken weeping,” he said firmly as he sat down and distributed the drinks. Varric was unfazed by his tone.

“It was close enough. Don’t let him fool you with his dashing, sarcastic demeanour; Hawke is a total drama queen.”

Fenris wondered, a little guilty, what exactly Hawke had said or done to warrant such a title, even if Varric did have a tendency to embellish the truth. Outwardly, Hawke had acted just as he always did; not taking anything seriously, deflecting everything with humor. Fenris hadn’t noticed anything particularly _miserable,_ but it wasn’t like he’d be privy to any private venting Hawke would do to his best friend.

“You’re about to lose your status as my favorite dwarf,” Hawke warned.

“Please, Hawke, how many dwarves do you actually know?”

Hawke was silent for a moment.

“At least four. Wait, five.”

Varric laughed, then sat back in his chair. “Then forgive me for not being particularly worried.”

Hawke’s mouth quirked into a smirk, and he opened it to reply, but didn’t get as far as the first syllable when a head with billowing dark curls appeared in the space between Fenris and Hawke, making the both of them jump.

“Hello, boys!” Isabela cheered, slinging an arm around both of their shoulders and pulling them close. With their cheeks pressed together, Fenris’ senses were almost overwhelmed by her jasmine perfume. “You haven’t started drinking without me, have you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Rivaini,” Varric said and gestured to the untouched tankards.

“Good,” she said and grabbed Hawke’s tankard, who protested loudly at this blatant theft, but Isabela had already slipped, grinning, around the table with her prize before he could make a grab for her.

“Thieving wench,” he shot at her, though it lacked any fire that would make it actually insulting. Hawke rarely held any ire for his friends, even when they went as far as turning on him at the behest of demons in the Fade. Isabela just winked at Hawke, then downed at least half of the tankard in a few hefty gulps.

Merrill arrived a little later, somewhat out of breath.

“Hello everyone! So, so sorry I’m late. At least I think I’m late? I think I took a wrong turn somewhere, and I had completely forgotten the twine at home,” she said all in a rush as she sat down next to Isabela, who laughed and patted her reassuringly on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it, kitten. You can never wait too long for a good thing, hmm?” she said.

“Because you’re such a paragon of patience,” Hawke said with a quirked brow. Isabela flashed him a lopsided grin.

“I put up with you, don’t I?” she quipped without a moment’s hesitance. Fenris concealed a snort by coughing into his fist. No one was fooled.

“Hawke’s not so bad!” Merrill protested. “Sure his jokes are terrible, and he never knocks before coming in, and he gets into an awful lot of trouble that he always gets us involved in…” She trailed off with a look of uncertainty.

“Thank you, Merrill,” Hawke said flatly.

“We put up with you because we love you, Hawke,” Varric said reassuringly, reaching over to clap him on the shoulder. “Well, now that everyone’s here, shall we get a round of Wicked Grace started?”

The group gave their assent, and Varric began dealing the cards.

 The night carried on through easy conversation and reckless gambling. At some point the topic had turned to winters in Kirkwall, and particularly how the last one had been cold enough for it to actually snow. Hawke had been delighted, reminded of the winters in the much colder Ferelden, while Merrill and Fenris (particularly their feet) were not.

“I had to sacrifice a table for firewood to keep from freezing in the night,” Fenris said. Not that it had been much of a loss; Maker knows he didn’t use half of the furniture gathering dust in that decrepit old mansion.” I do not recommend cleaving wood with swords,” he added, recalling the struggle of trying to use his greatsword as a makeshift axe. It had been an ordeal, and he had to sit with a whetstone for hours to undo the damage.

“Why would you use a sword? That seems awfully impractical,” Merrill asked, genuinely curious. Fenris shrugged.

“I couldn’t find a saw.”

Hawke and Isabela’s eyes snapped to each other immediately. Hawke let out an ugly choked noise before the two of them burst out laughing to the confusion of everyone else present. Merrill looked between them with a slight smile, as if she wanted to join in on the fun. Varric seemed nonplussed.

“Alright, what am I missing?” he said over the uproarious laughter.

“I fail to see what is so funny,” Fenris said dryly, irked by the implication of a joke at his expense.

Isabela was laughing too hard to offer a response, her entire body shaking with the effort, but Hawke simply pat him on the thigh, wiping his eyes, and said, “Don’t worry about it.”

They played a couple more hands of Wicked Grace; Fenris was put further into debt to Varric, Hawke insisted on buying everyone more rounds of foul ale, and Isabela was caught cheating four times. Merrill was the first to excuse herself from the gathering, seemingly unaffected by the endless supply of drinks, yet declaring she was tired either way. She gave everyone a kiss goodbye on the cheek (even Fenris, though he glowered about it), and then left.

They continued playing for a while after that, though Fenris had opted out of the game soon enough for the fear of owing the dwarf more than he already did. When Varric caught Isabela cheating for the fifth time, she declared it was time for her to turn in since she was obviously slipping, and she bid everyone a good night, putting extra emphasis on _good_ while winking at Fenris. When she swaggered away, Varric started to gather all the cards.

"Looks like our little party's breaking up," he said, tapping the deck against the table to align the cards and slipping it into his coat pocket. He then stood from his seat and yawned. "Suppose it's a good time as any to turn in. Don't get jumped on the way home, boys."

Hawke stood as well, and said with feigned innocence, "Since when do we ever get jumped?"

 

\--

 

Fortunately they were _not_ jumped by any gangs eager to try their luck on the way back to Hightown. It was just as well, Hawke hadn’t brought his staff and casting spells while inebriated and without a focus was a recipe for disaster, and Fenris wasn’t sure how well he’d be able to balance the sheer size of his greatsword properly. They made it past the market, up the steps and around corners until they were greeted by the Amell crests mounted on either side of the estate doors.

Fenris turned to face Hawke.

“Tonight was very pleasant,” he said with a slight smile. “I enjoyed spending time with you.”

“As did I. Very much so,” Hawke said. There was a pause, a tension in the air. Hawke shifted on his feet and looked to the ground, drawing in a breath as if he were about to speak. Fenris decided to take action, to break the tension, and stepped forward to kiss him. It wasn’t shy like Hawke’s kiss had been when they’d last parted ways, but deliberate. His hand reached up and combed his fingers through the hair at the back of Hawke’s head, and he wished he was free of his gauntlets so he could feel the scruffiness against his palm just as well as he felt the rasp of Hawke’s beard against his chin.

Longing drove Fenris to press his tongue against his bottom lip and Hawke sighed as their kiss deepened and settled his hands on Fenris’ waist. The thought of going home to a cold empty mansion was steadily getting less and less appealing, not that it had much appeal to begin with.

They pulled apart after what felt simultaneously like an eternity and not long enough.

“Sleep well, Hawke,” Fenris murmured, dropping his hand and shifting his weight to step away. But Hawke’s grip on his waist tightened before he could move. It wasn’t enough to physically force him to stay in place - Hawke would never force him to do anything - but Fenris could take a hint. He looked at him, studied his ale-flushed face, waiting. Hawke’s eyes looked almost completely black in the darkness. He let go of his waist to grab his hands, and he took a deep breath.

“Stay the night?” he asked. Fenris blinked, taken aback. They hadn’t spent the night alone together, hadn’t shared a bed, since three years ago. When Fenris hesitated, he quickly added, “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Hawke looked down at their hands.

“I’d just.. Like to hold you again.”

Fenris smiled, endeared. You’d think he was proposing marriage with the way he was acting. He thought about the hearth in Hawke’s room, about the bed’s soft covers and fluffy mattress, and lastly he thought of how Hawke had settled warm against his back and whispered _good night_ against his neck.

“Alright. Yes,” he said, and Hawke’s eyes snapped up to him. He looked absolutely elated, breaking into a toothy grin that made warmth swirl in Fenris’ chest. He lead Fenris over to the door, letting go of his hands only to unlock it and hold it open in a proper gentlemanly fashion.

Bodahn was not there to greet them, nor was Orana, alluding to the fact that it was quite late. Who _did_ greet them was Hawke’s mabari, the old hound’s claws clicking against the floors as he approached. His stump of a tail wagged as Hawke bent down to rub his ears, and once he’d had sufficient attention from his master, he padded over to Fenris and pressed his snout against his leg, looking up at him with big dark eyes.

  
“Hello,” Fenris said and pet his forehead. The hound let out a low rumble, then snorted and walked away, no doubt to take up his usual spot before the large fireplace in the foyer.

He set his sword away at a rack by the entrance, next to an assortment of staves, some of which he’d never even seen Hawke wield.

The hearth was lit in Hawke’s room, as were several candles about the room. The bed was neatly made and the curtains were drawn in anticipation of _Messere Hawke’s_ late return. Hawke immediately stepped over to the wardrobe and shrugged off his robes. He hadn’t donned the champion’s mantle that day in favor of something more casual, and so was relieved of the ordeal of removing any armor. His undershirt was white linen, hanging loosely off his shoulders with fabric spilling over at the waist where they were tucked into his trousers. He hung the robes in the wardrobe, then grabbed the back of his collar to pull off the undershirt as well.

Hawke’s back was broad and littered with scars, dotted with the occasional freckle here and there. Fenris couldn’t help but remember running his hands up that back, feeling the muscles there flex and move and part of him yearned to reach out and feel the warmth of his skin again. But it was as if he was transfixed, standing stiffly by the door and wrestling impure thoughts. Hawke must have felt his eyes on him, because as he folded his shirt and put it away he glanced over his shoulder. He met Fenris’ silent stare with a cheeky smile.

“Enjoying the view?” he asked, not at all perturbed by being ogled.

“I- Sorry, I did not mean to stare,” Fenris said, embarrassment heating his cheeks, more at getting caught than anything else. Hawke chuckled and began unlacing his trousers without a care.

“You can look at me all you want, Fen.”

And there was that easy flirting that Hawke had snared him with in the first place. Of course, there was far more to Fenris’ feelings toward him than that, but it had been the red thread all throughout getting to know him. Hawke was halfway out of his trousers when Fenris recovered and delivered with a smirk:

“I’d like to do more than just look.”

Hawke looked up at him with a measure of surprise on his face before it was split by a grin that was downright wicked.

“Oh, really? That’s not really the impression I’m getting, what with you just standing over there and all. Not that I’m complaining, you’ve got a very nice _smolder_ going on.”

Fenris shook his head with an amused huff, then began unbuckling his belt and let it drop to the floor. His gauntlets came next, the clatter of metal loud in the silence of night, followed by his chestplate. He began approaching Hawke as he removed his leather tunic and undershirt, leaving a trail of clothes from the door up to the wardrobe. It was Hawke’s turn to silently stare, his eyes dark and hungry as they swept over his bare torso.

Fenris splayed his hands over Hawke’s chest, touching his bare skin for the first time in years. He felt the thrum of residual magic trickle through his markings, and still could not decide whether it was unpleasant or not. He slid his hands down his torso and got re-acquainted with the coarse texture of the ridiculous amount of body hair decorating the man.

Hawke cradled his face and dipped down, bringing them together for a kiss. His arms dropped and wound around Fenris’ waist and pulled him in to press flush against him. The lyrium made him keenly aware of every point of contact, the sensation not exactly pain but still intense in some manner, like fire lapping at his skin without burning.

Hawke advanced, forcing Fenris to step back in order to keep his balance until he felt the edge of the bed bend his knees. He sat back with a huff and had scarcely a second to give Hawke an indignant look before the mage was upon him. The weight of Hawke pushed him down onto the mattress, but he could hardly complain when Hawke’s mouth found a spot beneath his jaw that made his entire body shudder.

The rest of their clothes were quickly discarded and Hawke laughed, not for the first time, at the reason why Isabela could never guess the color of Fenris’ underwear. Throughout their rutting, Hawke entertained that spot on Fenris’ neck many more times, and Fenris had left several fresh scratches on Hawke’s back. They exchanged little in terms of words, and communicated instead with the responses of their bodies and the gasping moans pulled out of each other’s throats.

They collapsed into each other’s arms, spent and satisfied, and lay there catching their breaths and settling from their highs until Hawke declared they were gross and left the bed to fetch a pail of water, along with a cloth to wash up with.

When they settled for the night, the fire low and dim in the hearth, the candles extinguished, Fenris felt oddly content. He lay on his back, nearly swallowed by the softness of the bed, with Hawke right next to him laying on his side with an arm slung over Fenris’ waist. Hawke had drifted off quickly, leaving Fenris awake in the dark. But his mind felt still, at peace. If there were any memories waiting for him around the corner, then he’d be ready for them this time. He would not run again.

He closed his eyes and listened to Hawke breathe.

 

\--

 

Fenris awoke to the sound of Hawke snoring.

As the throes of sleep slipped off of him, he noticed his face was pressed against Hawke’s throat and he was half-way on top of him, and it was very, very warm. He untangled their legs and rolled onto his back, allowing himself the leisure of stretching out with a belly-deep sigh. He realized if he’d dreamt, he’d forgotten it, and wondered if there had been more buried memories among them. He thought about a hazy garden, and an elven girl with red hair that meant nothing to him, and wondered how old he’d been. He hadn’t noticed that the snoring had stopped until Hawke rolled onto his side and put his hand on Fenris’ stomach.

Fenris turned his head to look at him. Hawke’s smile was soft and sleepy, but his eyes were clear with wakefulness.

“Good morning,” he said in a rasp.

“Good morning, Hawke,” Fenris replied. Hawke chuckled and shuffled closer to press a kiss to Fenris’ forehead.

“Still ‘Hawke’, huh?” Fenris frowned. That was his name, was it not? He’d only ever heard his family call him by his given name; most of Kirkwall probably didn’t even know what it was. He felt it was a familiarity out of his reach, and no one among their companions called him anything but Hawke.

With a pang he realized there was no one around to call him by his first name anymore.

“Garrett,” Fenris said. It felt strange in his mouth. Hawke hummed quietly, tracing circles on Fenris’ stomach with his fingers. The moment felt somehow more intimate than last night, and it inspired a deep ache in Fenris’ chest that he didn’t know the meaning of. He moved closer, wrapping an arm around Hawke’s waist and burying his face in the crook of his neck.

Hawke settled around him easily, stroking the length of his spine with slow soothing movements and they remained like that for some time, just breathing. Eventually the ache softened into something akin to happiness; a disbelief that he could lay there in Hawke’s bed and feel _loved_ \- and his heart hammered against his ribs at the thought of love. He wished Hawke knew how important he was to him, knew how much he changed. He hoped he knew.

“You’re staying for breakfast, right? Orana makes the fluffiest waffles I’ve ever had in my life,” Hawke said suddenly, unaware of his lover’s emotional turmoil. Fenris honestly hadn’t thought that far, too caught up in the morning glow. He pulled away from Hawke just enough to give him a smile, and peck him on the lips.

“I’d love to.”

**Author's Note:**

> when I started writing this I planned for them to specifically *not* bang, but then Hawke took his shirt off and everything just spiraled out of all control. Namely Fenris spiraled out of control. I couldn’t contain him or his little bi hands. i left it ambiguous so u can decide for urself who topped
> 
> I also didn’t expect for this to break 6k words, yet here we are
> 
> the fertile loins are real and are from a translation of a french poem by charles baudelaire: Les Chats
> 
> all in all this was just supposed to be inconsequential fluff about Fenris being happy and allowing himself to be happy as opposed to another fic i’m writing where everything is sad and awful
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!!


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